Before the Beginning Series
by Sol1056
Summary: A series of stories focused on the five pilots, pre-series. Written for Pysche's Before the Beginning Challenge.
1. Today's Lesson

This one-shot was written for Psyche's Before the Beginning challenge, "a Gundam Wing fanfiction challenge for stories set at any point prior to the first episode of the series." If you're interested, there's still time for you to write something, too – the deadline is April 30, 2004. You can find more information at happyfangirl org / before.   
  
Rated: G   
No pairings, no major cussing.   
Warning: significant mathematical and physics concepts ahead.   
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**Today's Lesson**   
  
               
              
            

              
"Two hours."   
  
"One."   
  
The kid pauses, his eyes narrowing. "One an' a half," he says, decisively.   
  
I snort, assessing the kid carefully. The kid - Duo - is smart, no doubt about that, but I've met plenty of smart kids - and adults - in my lifetime. What Duo has is pure guts. I smile then, a tight movement that just bares my teeth, and nod once.   
  
Duo punches the air with a fist, his grin wide, and shifts in his seat, pulling one of the books across the desk towards him. "Then get outta here, old man, so I can finish this."   
  
On a whim, I shake my head. "I'd rather quiz you. You spent all day yesterday going over these questions."   
  
"Quiz me?" Duo rolls his eyes in an exaggerated fashion. "Man, that is so dull. Just lemme write 'em out an' then I can―"   
  
"No," I say, holding up a hand. "Sixteen trees, on average growing forty kumquats each―"   
  
"What's a kumquat?" Duo's tone is baffled. When I don't answer, his blue eyes turn suspicious. "You can't multiply stuff that doesn't exist."   
  
"It's a type of fruit. Ever heard of oranges?"   
  
Duo rolls his eyes again and nods.   
  
"Well, you should eat more of them." I snort when Duo makes a face and ducks his head to the textbook. The Sweepers do their best, but the kid's a bottomless pit. On the other hand, at only five-foot even, there are modifications I can make that I couldn't make with an adult. It's not like the kid will need the extra legroom - I expect him to grow an inch, maybe two, in the next two years. I realize Duo's muttering under his breath, and pay attention, leaning forward to see what has him irritated.   
  
"This stuff is just...this is so stupid," Duo moans. "When am I ever goin' to care about somethin' like how many gallons of water are in a swimmin' pool? When am I ever gonna be near a swimmin' pool, anyway?"   
  
"Do you know what one is?" I lean back, regarding Duo steadily.   
  
"Hell yeah," Duo retorts, indignantly. "There was one at the church! Hell," he mutters, glaring at the books. "I don't see how you can swim in a bathtub in the first place."   
  
I ignore the misconception as irrelevant. Saying anything would only make Duo bristle. "You need to know volume, circumference, and other basic calculations if you're going to be able to handle flying outside the simulator. The program won't always be running to make those adjustments and calculations for you."   
  
"Can't be _that_ hard," Duo replies. "And it's gotta be less borin' than this crap."   
  
"Can't be that hard," I repeat, a bit sarcastically, and chuckle dryly. "You think?"   
  
"Yeah!" Duo sits up straight in the chair, his legs kicking at the rungs. They're not long enough to reach the floor, but it doesn't stop him from glaring at me. "Go ahead! Gimme something hard!"   
  
"Fine. First, determine the weight of a shuttle, loaded with one Gundam."   
  
Duo's silent for a minute, his eyes closed. Then one brilliant blue eye opens. "What kind of shuttle?"   
  
"Thirteen-X," I reply, picking a shuttle make at random. I'd assigned lists of such information for Duo to memorize, and the kid had complained for at least a half-hour. Then he'd disappeared, and I'd found him an hour later, perched on Deathsycthe's chest as the head engineer made alterations to the ECM system.   
  
"Nine-point-eight tons," Duo answers.   
  
So he did at least look at the list. "With one Gundam," I remind him.   
  
"Seventeen."   
  
"Thirteen-X has a capacity of two mobile suits," I point out. "The weight is not discrete, as it varies from front to back―"   
  
"So the weight changes depending on distance," Duo says, shrugging. "Just divide up the length of the shuttle into smaller sections, determine the weight of each section, to get the..."   
  
I blink.   
  
"...What?" Duo frowns, puzzled, but the look quickly becomes a scowl. "It makes sense to me!"   
  
"Right, right," I say, waving one hand. "Then do it. Numerically integrate the equation and tell me the result."   
  
"Numerically my ass," Duo mutters, falling quiet for a second. "Seventeen-point-six," he says.   
  
I blink again, and resist the urge to dig in my pocket for a calculator. Then I consider digging in Duo's pockets for the calculator, just to make sure the little thief isn't doing it all under the table top. I realize Duo's staring, and sigh.   
  
"Try calculating the change in velocity required to enter the transfer orbit from L2 to Earth," I begin.   
  
"What's velocity again?"   
  
"Speed." I give Duo a sharp glance, but the kid's expression is thoughtful. I grab one of the sheets of scrap paper, jotting down a long equation. "You need to know the basics before you can understand - let alone compute in your head - equations like this."   
  
Duo nods, considering that carefully, then his face splits into a wide grin. "What's this do?"   
  
"It's a formula for calculating the velocity at any point of a heliocentric orbit with L2 at perihelion and Earth at aphelion," I explain. Wonder which word will trip Duo this time. The kid's vocabulary has grown substantially, but it's been stunted by the fact that he rarely sits still long enough to read anything I give him with more than a cursory glance. "You don't need to―"   
  
"Yeah, whatever." Duo mimics my habit of waving one hand, and I stifle a grin. The kid's obnoxious, but his quickness makes such forgivable. "One over R. R is rate...so that's the velocity at...what?"   
  
"Aphelion."   
  
Duo squints at the sheet. "If you replace R with dEarth...heading there, means slowing down, so negative..." His voice trails off into mumbles as he stares at the sheet, his brow furrowed. Absently he brings his braid around to the front, stroking it a few times before flipping it over his shoulder. "Change in velocity is negative three-point-two kilometers per second."   
  
I study Duo for several seconds, until the kid starts squirming. Finally I settle back, trying to appear casual. "What makes you think that?"   
  
"Dunno," Duo says, and grins. "Just made sense, that stuff should be moved around until ya find the answer. Did I not get it right?"   
  
"Yeah, you did," I huff. I can't help it. Damn kid. Too precocious.   
  
"Cool!" Duo shoots up from the chair, papers flying in all directions. "I'm gonna―"   
  
"Duo!" I sit up, barking the kid's name. Duo freezes at the door, his hand on the plate to slide the ship's door open. I can see the slight rise in Duo's shoulders, and suppress a grin, knowing the kid's already gathering his strength to protest. "You still have to do the rest of these equations―"   
  
"Only if you give me somethin' _hard," _Duo replies, but doesn't leave the door. Instead, he leans one shoulder against the door, his arms crossed, his nose turned up as though he's won the day and it's only a matter of time before I acknowledge it.   
  
I smirk to myself, and decide to try a different tactic. Duo's been hanging out with the mechanics working on the Gundam. Perhaps it's time to measure the size of the little pitcher's ears. "How can a heat weapon block a beam saber?"   
  
Duo snorts. "The I-field keeps the heat weapon from expandin' an' since it can't contract neither, it would force the blade back, eventually frying the saber if the two are in contact long enough," he recites in a bored voice.   
  
"How do you determine mass ratio?" That might get him. It's several chapters ahead in the textbooks I've chosen.   
  
"Velocity equals nine-point-eight-one meters divided by sec-to-2 times natural log of mass ratio times specific impulse." Duo yawns melodramatically. "Specific impulse, measured in seconds, reflects the efficiency of the propellant used."   
  
"What's the mass ratio of Deathscythe?"   
  
"One-point-seven-two," Duo says, and makes a face when I raised my eyebrows. "And before you ask, it will be outrun by a Leo in the stretch, which has a mass ratio of one-point-nine-six."   
  
"What's the acceleration of a Taurus with a thrust of ninety-four-point-eight kilograms?"   
  
Duo opens his mouth, frowns, and closes his mouth with a snap, giving me an annoyed look. "The book didn't talk about thrust in kilograms. It used some dead guy's name."   
  
"Newton," I reply. "But when did you ever do anything by the book?" I'm amused to see Duo preen for a second. "Just go with it, and answer the question."   
  
"Twelve Gs," Duo says, and snickers.   
  
"What's an apogee motor?"   
  
"A thruster used with Active Mass Balance AutoControl. Makes the suit go right way up. Is that the best you can do? Can I go now?"   
  
I sigh. "Go on. One hour―"   
  
"―an' a half," Duo interrupts.   
  
"And a half," I agree, wearily. "And then get your ass out of that simulator and scoot it right back here. You're got two hours this afternoon with Mike."   
  
Duo's already out the door, but pops his head around the corner long enough to grin. "Do we get to blow things up?"   
  
"I don't know," I say, a little grumpy at Duo's cheer. The kid never approaches my physics lessons with half the enthusiasm he gives Mike's daily lectures in chemistry. I can hear Duo's footsteps pounding down the hall, before going silent as the kid kicks off and floats the rest of the way.   
  
"That bad?" One of the men sticks his head in the door. "Saw the kid take out of here like a bat outta hell. What did you do to him this time, G?"   
  
"Nothing," I tell him. "Just trying to figure out where he stores all that information in his scrawny little body."   
  
"Probably the same place he puts all the food," Joe replies with a grin. "Y'know, we're going to need to stop by MT-0999XS and reload."   
  
"Again?" I raise my head sharply, but Joe looks serious. "We can't possibly―"   
  
"We can, and we are," Joe says. "Ted's been fussing about the fact that the food stores keep disappearing, despite the eight locks between the mess hall door and the walk-in freezer."   
  
"And I bet Duo oh-so-helpfully agreed to help him put the locks in place," I mutter, a little sourly. "Ted's not the brightest."   
  
"Speaking of which, explosives class after lunch?"   
  
"Yeah, why?" I stand, sorting the textbooks and papers into a pile. It's not the neatest, but it's neater than Duo would ever manage, if left to his own devices.   
  
"Just making sure. Me 'n the guys are gonna head out to MT-0999XS immediately after lunch, then. Figured it'd be better to vacate the premises."   
  
Yeah. Duo and explosives...I join Joe at the door. "Got room for an extra body on the shuttle?"   
  
"Sure thing, G," he says, and laughs. "I've got a shopping list right here...say," he adds, frowning as he looks at it. "Who the hell wrote down six pounds of chocolate and three cases of soda?"   
  
I peer over his shoulder at the list. The additions to the ship's shopping list are in a scrawl across the bottom of the sheet. "I don't know," I tell him. "But I'd be willing to bet it's got two short legs and a long braid."   
  
"Thanks, but I don't take losing bets." Joe regards the list thoughtfully. "So should I mark it off?"   
  
"No," I say, grinning slyly. "Let's buy it, and then lock it up. The kid'll find it soon enough, and we wouldn't want to make it _too_ easy on him." Yeah, Duo, you always take the hardest route, but I'll keep giving it to you if that's what makes you happy.   
  
        
        
       
        
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Much of the information about mecha, weights, and specific physics questions related to Gundam were derived from the Gundam FAQ project, at .


	2. Just a Girl

Takes place before the series begins. No warnings, no violence, no pairings, no language, no nudity.

Rated: G

**Just A Girl**

* * *

1.

* * *

"Come on, kid, take a break." I stare up at the kid's form, just barely visible in the open belly of the Taurus. When he doesn't reply, I finish off my empty beer can and throw it at the open panel. It clatters hollowly inside the mobile suit's body, only to reappear a second later, winging its way down to hit me square on the forehead.

"Kranz, don't be pestering Nanashi," Franco says, coming up behind me. "He's on a mission to find the squeak in the balance motors." Franco nudges me in the shoulder and grins. "Besides, his aim is far better than yours."

I ignore Franco, and focus on the clanging coming from the Taurus. "Come on, Nanashi, it can wait until morning!" I holler.

The kid's head finally pokes out from the Mobile Suit, a wrench in one hand, and a screwdriver tucked behind his ear. His brown hair flops down in his face. There's a smudge of grease on his cheekbone, clearly visible even from the twenty-foot distance.

"I'm almost done," he says, and disappears again.

"That's what you told the Captain an hour ago," I yell back. "Dinner will be ready, and you're not missing another meal."

Franco shakes his head. "Nanashi's too skinny," he says under his breath. "He's a frickin' beanpole. A _short_ beanpole, but still a beanpole."

"Yeah, and we even scored some biscotti," I mutter. It's a surprise, for the one day a year the Captain had summarily determined was Nanashi's birthday - or the closest thing a foundling like him might have. Franco, however, naturally ruins the plans immediately with his big mouth.

"Biscotti!"

Nanashi's head pops out of the Mobile Suit's belly, then pulls back in. There's a rattling of metal, and a wrench comes flying out of the machine, followed quickly by Nanashi's skinny form as he scales the machine's body, hopping to the ground with an expectant look.

"Only if you eat your vegetables," I tease. As usual, however, Nanashi reacts as though it were a direct order, nodding seriously as he turns and trots off towards the encampment. Franco follows him, but I pause to pick up the wrench. Straightening up, I hear another sound, of a second body making a slow and hesitant path down the mobile suit's lowered climbing rope.

Curious, I step back into the shadows, watching a young girl walk past me, following the direction Nanashi had headed. Hm. Wonder what Nanashi was doing with a girl? He can't be more than ten, by my guess. He was perhaps three years old when we found him, and seven years now...ten, maybe eleven. Hard to tell, really. Kids grow so fast.

But a girl, already, I think, watching her slim shape fade into the darkness only to reappear, silhouetted by the campfire. Cute, if way too young for my taste, but when you're ten, anything over eleven's got to seem wise to the world. I grin to myself, shove the wrench in my back pocket, and head to get some dinner, too.

* * *

2.

* * *

"Hey, Nanashi," I say, turning on the cockpit's seat to see skinny legs hanging over the entrance. "Hand me a five-sixteenths for a three-eighths socket, would ya?" I can hear him rustling in the toolbox as I replace the busted card, sliding a new one into place and shutting the drive door with a soft thump. The panel needs replacing, too, having burnt out from a direct hit in our last engagement. Something bumps me in the shoulder and I reach up, taking the socket without looking. "Thanks."

The feet remain, kicking back and forth idly, as though Nanashi were waiting for something. I figure as much; the kid often hangs back, rather than impose, even if we're the closest to family, and tell him so all the time. Finally I give up, shaking my head as I grimace at the torque on the left-hand panel bolt.

"Nanashi," I tell him. "Come on in here and hold this panel in place."

The boy leaps down into the cockpit with a graceful maneuver; putting his hands on the panel as I finally get the first bolt undone. Moving to the second, I risk a glance at his face. It's solemn, but he's chewing at his lower lip. Suspicious, I decide to go for it.

"So...cute girl."

His hands falter and the panel swings down, catching the half-undone bolt at a bad angle. I studiously avoid looking at Nanashi, whose face seemed to be turning the same bright red as his favorite scarf. Instead, I help him straight the panel, and go back to working on the bolt.

"She a friend of yours?"

Nanashi shrugs. I nod, and hum under my breath as the bolt comes loose in my fingers. Between the two of us, we get the panel down, Nanashi supporting it as I study the fried wires behind it.

"How..." The boy's voice is quiet, and would seem flat to a stranger, but I know him well enough to recognize that split-second of hesitation. "How do you know if you like someone?"

I nearly drop the ratchet. That wasn't quite what I was expecting, but close enough, I figure. I do my best to wipe the grin off my face, and try to appear as though I were considering his question seriously. Given that Nanashi gives even the act of choosing one sugar or two for his coffee a long moment of contemplation, a serious reply is the least I can do.

"Well," I say, wondering if it's too late to tell him to talk to the Captain, "I think it starts with wanting to be around the person a lot."

Nanashi nods, his expression intent, and I can practically see him filing that away.

"Did you have someone in mind?" I ask, oh-so-nonchalantly.

The boy shrugs, but his fingers tighten on the edge of the panel. We're quiet for a minute, as I set down the ratchet and begin disconnecting the appropriate wires.

"How do you know if you want to be around the person?"

I blink, confused, and start to answer, but Nanashi explains himself quickly, as though he's already concluded the question was ambiguous.

"I mean, if they're always around..."

"Ah," I say, laughing. "How can I miss you, if you never go away?" I raise my head over the panel and laugh, waggling my eyebrows at him. He frowns a little, treating the tease as a serious question, but it only makes me shake my head and grin wider.

Damn kid is so predictable: everything has to be considered carefully, turned over and studied thoroughly. Like if he could just consider it long enough, it would make sense. Then again, how else can I expect him to act? We did our best, but his only toys were broken mobile suit parts, and his bedtime stories were tales of our magnificent victories, exaggerated into legend only amongst our troop.

"I don't know if I like her," he says finally, picking his words carefully as though weaving his Taurus through a field of land mines. "But I think she's like me."

A kid of war, I think he means. I nod, and bang my head on the frame for the panel. I curse under my breath and reach for the last three wires, stripping them quickly.

"Okay," I tell him, "let's lift this out of the way."

Nanashi helps me lean the heavy panel against the arm of the seat, and watches silently as I poke and prod at the wiring harness. Clearly whatever's on his mind isn't yet worked through completely. I take my time with the repairs, to let him think.

"What do you do with girls?"

I nearly yank the wires straight from the harness, stunned by the abrupt question, and a bit amused at the utter naïveté in his tone. "Ah," I say, wondering if my face is a little red, too. "Ah, well, there's no need to worry about that now. That's for later."

Nanashi twitches his head to get his hair out of his eyes and gives me a look like I'm utterly stupid. He's gathering information, and he's going to find it, whether I like it or not. And better me, I suppose, than Franco or some of the other guys, who'll probably scare him half of ten year's growth with lurid stories of the fun to be had at the hands of a good woman. I sigh.

"Girls are...well, they can be friends," I begin, not sure how to put it.

"I have enough friends," he replies, his brows lowering just a bit.

"You have friends, but you can never have too many," I point out. "Friends watch your back. They're there for you. And girls...are just there, with...benefits."

"Benefits." He's silent a moment, then flushes again. "Like kissing?"

"Yeah," I drawl, unable to help myself. "Among other things."

"I don't know if I want to kiss her," he says, and his expression is firm but his tone's tentative, as though he's come to the decision but isn't sure how. "I mean...she's _grown-up_."

I just about choke. I am not having this conversation; I can't be. This is the Captain's role. He adopted the kid; I just happened to be there when it happened. I set down the wiring harness and turn to lean against the ceiling of the mobile suit, my feet resting on the back of the seat.

"Well, she's what...twelve? Girls grow up faster than guys," I say, a little cautiously. "They...know what they want, sooner than us guys."

"I know what I want," he replies, but he doesn't sound sure of himself.

"I don't think we mean the same thing," I mutter.

Just what we need...Nanashi in the throes of his first love affair, at age ten. Judging from his behavior, I doubt that'll happen, and hope fervently I'm right. The girl I'd seen had moved with too much self-assurance. I think back to when I was ten, and can only see one route ahead: she'll probably scare the wits out of Nanashi, even if not meaning to, and he'll retreat into a shell and not come out until he's fifteen.

Probably not even then, I think, regarding the young man thoughtfully. He's fiddling with the harness, his deft fingers splaying the wires in preparation for the new panel.

"Look, Nanashi," I finally say, "just watch yourself. Girls can be...tricky."

"Tricky," he repeats, his fingers stilling on the wires.

"Yeah." I put my hands to the edge of the cockpit opening over our heads, and hoist myself out. Turning, I give him a hand up, lifting his slight weight easily. "When they're young...oh, hell, at any point, I think...they've got a lot in their heads. They...don't see things the same way. That means they make choices that don't make sense, to you or me."

Nanashi nods, the contemplative look back on his face. That's the worst part, knowing if I say a wrong word, correcting myself won't overwrite the older words. They'll all just be filed together, probably under a mental heading of How Girls Think, According To Kranz. I groan mentally, and clap Nanashi on the shoulder.

"Just don't let her break your heart," I whisper, as if relaying a great secret. "You do that, you're a goner." I laugh, and hop down from the Taurus, hitting the ground with a grunt as my knees protest. "Alright, boy, you want to come into town with me to get a new panel?"

He doesn't say anything, but stares across the encampment for a second, before nodding and leaping down beside me. I'm already several feet away and heading for the truck, and I don't think he expects me to hear his whispered response.

"How can you break something you don't have," he asks himself.

I don't know, kid, I think, unwilling to let him know I'd heard. But your heart's going to be broken, one way or another. It's the first step of growing up. I sigh, and do my best to resurrect my grin for his benefit.

"Come on, Nanashi, no looking down at the mouth," I tease. "I hear there's a bakery in town with the best biscotti in Italy."

That gets me a faint grin, which is the equivalent of a cheerful smile on anyone else's face. Ah, always so serious, I think, climbing into the truck. Nanashi climbs into the cab beside me, and the movement pulls his scarf to the side. I catch a flash of light, and glance over to see him tugging his scarf down again.

"What's that?" It had looked like a cross. "You found religion or something?"

Nanashi shrugs, one end of his mouth curling up in his abbreviated version of a wry smile. "The girl gave it to me. Midi."

Girl has a name, I think. And she's given him something. I whistle under my breath as I start the truck's engine. "Sounds serious," I tell him, but keep my tone light.

"Is it?" He gives me a puzzled look, and goes back to staring out the side window.

Definitely serious. I sigh to myself as we pull out of the camp, the truck's wheels rumbling as it hits the paved road. Well, I'll just have to keep an eye on the girl. She hurts him, I promise myself, and I'll find a way to make her miserable. Nanashi might not believe he's got a heart, but I've seen the truth of things, and it's really the opposite.

He's got a heart, and it would break all too easily.


	3. Last Equation

Takes place before the series begins. No warnings, no violence, no pairings, no language, no nudity.

Rated: G

**Last Equation**

* * *

1.

* * *

"Take a break, young man."

"I just want to run through this one more time, and make sure I've got it right―"

I smile at the door to the cockpit simulator, and shake my head. "Another five minutes, then."

"Thanks, instructor!"

The cheery voice echoes in the computer lab, and I rub my forehead as I wander back to my desk to rifle through my papers. The restless action does nothing to soothe me. Fifteen days and counting, and I just...Oh, I'm too old for this, I tell myself. I settle down in the rickety chair, wheels creaking as I run through the diagnostics program for Sandrock, checking everything for the twentieth time.

The door slides open, and I don't bother to look. Quatre's light step sounds behind me, followed by the rattle as he sets his goggles down on the computer desk.

"I went through it manually this morning," he tells me, and I nod, my eyes on the spill of numbers and calculations scrolling up the screen. In the corner of my eye, I can see him turn to lean against the desk. His arms are crossed as he stares out the glass into the hanger, where Sandrock waits.

"Fifteen days," he whispers, and his face is troubled.

"Quatre," I start to say, but I hesitate, and the moment is past. He shakes himself, and gives me one of those flashing smiles.

"That's a fortnight and a half," Quatre says, but his eyes are still far away, and I doubt he's even seeing Sandrock now.

"A fortnight," I murmur, reaching back into my university days, long before this boy was born. "That's..."

"Ten days," he says, and laughs. "I learned the stupidest things. Like how to make a half-Windsor...and which fork is for oysters." He winks at me. "Had oysters once. They're pretty disgusting, but at least I used the proper fork."

"Use the proper tool for the job," I say, turning my eyes back to the screen. My heart feels heavy, as I ponder the latest communications. I've already deleted them, but I can read between the lines. I know the goals. "It's an important skill."

Quatre shrugs. "Seems pretty pointless to me."

"A man with a hammer sees everything as a nail," I tell him, hiding behind the oblique phrases that drove Quatre mad so often, early in our acquaintance. I smile to myself as his shoulders stiffen momentarily.

"I am the hammer," he whispers, his shoulders slumping.

"Young man," I say, and stop again. Not having kids of my own was never an impediment to my research, but I wonder sometimes if it would've helped me to understand this child. Yes, child, despite the affectionate title I've given him. "Are you truly prepared for this?"

"As best I can be," he says, another smile flitting across his face. He shifts, and I can see the dark circles under his eyes, and the tightness of his fingers against his upper arms. He's nervous, I know that much. The rest he hides, but not so well I can't see the signs. "I just want to see Earth for myself," he adds, turning his head away from me. "And I want to be someone to be proud of."

That's my cue, I know, but I just can't find the words. Instead, I settle for second best. "You've done a great deal, in a short time. I'm proud of you already." The program stops running, and I hit the key to close the window.

"That's not enough," Quatre tells me, his tone firm. "I want to make a difference."

Maybe you already have, and don't realize it, I think to myself. The orders are clear, and there's fifteen days. Maybe between now and then, I will come to my senses and fulfill the contract. And maybe, Quatre will make more of a difference than he'll ever realize.

* * *

2.

* * *

"Instructor," he calls, setting the goggles down on the desk. He leans over me to see what I'm doing. "You're adjusting the heat shotels? Why?"

"Just a few modifications I thought of last night," I tell him. I was faster on the draw than him, and I sigh in relief. The real modifications were completed only seconds before I heard his soft steps at the door, and I push away from the desk, letting the program calibrate. If there must be death, I can't stop it, but I will stop at least one death, if it ever comes to that.

"You're always adding stuff," he says with a laugh, and opens the locker to pull out his suit. The helmet is set down with a clank on the desk, next to the goggles.

"It's a good trait for a scientist to have," I protest, but we've been over this before. I tweak constantly, and he knows it. He tolerates the subtle changes with far more flexibility than I would have expected, remembering the spoiled, confused child I'd first met. "Once you've gone," and I can't quite say the rest, "you'll have to do all this on your own."

"I could take Sandrock apart and put him back together in my sleep," Quatre assures me, toeing off his shoes. He sits down on the other chair, and pulls off his pants, stripping down to boxers and undershirt before putting his feet in the airlock suit and standing to pull it up to his hips.

"I'm sure you could," I murmur, and glance at the screen. Confirmation came in this morning, and I'm feeling old, tired, and heart-broken. "The orders for the mission..."

"Are really very simple, instructor," Quatre says, shrugging. "You don't need to run any manual checks on _my_ system. _I_ haven't had a core loss yet."

He grins, a little impishly, but then grows serious, and I stare at the way the suit doesn't quite conform to his body like it did two months ago. He's lost weight, I think. I grin and shrug, settling back in my chair, and tap my fingers on the console, wondering what else I could check. Perhaps there's something wrong with the V-fin, or I could run another check on...

"Instructor?" Quatre cocks his head at me, puzzled, and I give him a wry smile.

"Sorry, young man, just thinking," I tell him. "And no, my mind is not wandering. I'm not that old."

He laughs, a bright sound, and my heart breaks all over again.

"Quatre," I ask, and he stops, somehow aware that the moment has arrived. It's just not the moment he's expecting. "Are you truly prepared to die?"

"It's an acceptable risk," he says. "As long as I can change something for the better, then I have no problems accepting what will happen."

"I'm not sure I see the point, if you're not going to be around to enjoy what you've gained," I tell him. My fingers play along the edge of the desk, seeking a keyboard. Something to distract me, I realize, and withdraw my hands into my lap.

"But other people will," he assures me. "Once there's peace, then what I'll do will be worth it. That's what I'm doing this for, after all."

Are you? I want to ask, but I'm good with numbers and calculations. Words are my weakest point, and for a moment I wonder whether I could come up with an equation to explain the derivative of one young man's collision with a group of strangers, and the arc of those changes over the past three years. The ellipse would move gracefully across the page, plummeting towards the Y-axis like a meteor's fall to Earth.

"Don't worry, instructor," Quatre says, laying a quick hand on my shoulder. "This is what I've trained for, all this time. I won't fail you."

But I want you to, I reply silently. If failing me means that you live, then I want you to fail so badly you never throw yourself into death again. On the other hand...living means living with what you'll have done. And that might be worse than death. I wonder if Quatre has already determined this, in that strange intuitive way of his, where the steps between assumption and conclusion don't exist, but the logic remains flawless. He doesn't always think; he just _knows_.

I wish I knew how to speak to him, sometimes.

"One more run," he says, picking up the helmet, and tucking it under his arm. "Then tomorrow, right, instructor?"

"Right," I say to his departing back, watching through the glass as he kicks off from the ramp and floats down to Sandrock.

One more day, before I must decide, or hold my tongue and let him go on this insane mission. Can you really create peace through war, I ask myself, once again aware that such questions are for philosophers, not scientists. Perhaps, though, I am growing into a philosopher, thanks to this determined young man. Better that than a doddering old scientist, I tell myself, and laugh under my breath.

The sound falters, though, as his words echo in my mind.

_As long as I can change something for the better, then I have no problems accepting what will happen._

It's then I smile, because it's then I know what I'll decide, and I have no problems accepting what will happen, either. Quatre, I think, you've already changed something for the better, no matter what else happens.

You changed me.


	4. Borrowed Books

Here's Wufei's story, probably the hardest of all of them to write. So much of his development is during the series and Episode Zero, and I didn't really want to touch that, but to explore his original attitude. Again, no nudity, no cussing, no violence, no drug use.

Rated: G

* * *

**Borrowed Books**

* * *

1.

* * *

"And what happened then?"

I pull off my glasses and rub my eyes before setting the glasses back on my nose. Peering through them at the earnest young man perched on the chair next to my desk, I shake my head and lean over, digging in my bag for several seconds.

"Why ask me?" I pull out a book and drop it on his lap. "That should answer your question." I've got papers to grade, and the semester's a day from ending. My arthritis is kicking in with the chilly weather, and I'm out of tea.

"I'll bring it back tomorrow." His voice is softer now, a little hesitant.

"You don't need to rush."

"Unlike you, I can read more than a sentence every five minutes," he replies, with just a hint of cheek. "And I remember it five minutes later, too."

I pick up my stapler and pretend to throw it at him, and he scoots from the room quickly. I make a note to remind myself to stop by the university's library tomorrow, and pick up more texts. I suspect that learning about the ancient Indian nation is only going to make him hungry for more information, not less. Besides, word around the teacher's meeting room last night was that the Chang family isn't calling him home for the holidays. Again.

I pull the glasses off, rub them absent-mindedly, and put them back on, pushing Master Chang firmly out of my head. I've got papers to grade.

* * *

2.

* * *

"I finished," he tells me, poking his head around the door.

Wufei steps in, his bearing dignified despite the fact that at thirteen, he's still shy of five feet. His presence more than makes up for his lack of height; I wonder if the emperors of old Beijing had half his imperious attitude. Would explain a great deal about the Communist take-over, I muse.

"What did you think?" I move some papers from the chair. I'm only halfway through grading the exams.

"I think the British had too much economic stake in the colony to give it up without a fight," he proclaims.

"Was the cost worth it?"

He frowns, and seats himself on the chair. His uniform is clean, and neatly pressed, but I can see the cuff is a little short on his wrist. He's hit another growth spurt, I think, and I'm pleased on his behalf.

"They had to protect their interests," he says.

"Ah," I say, raising my eyebrows. Here we go again. "And is that a good enough reason for war?"

"Of course," Wufei tells me. "You have to protect something that's important to you."

"But you need to measure the cost of such action before you do so," I reply calmly, looking at him over the tops of my glasses. "Some things are not worth the fight."

"Some things are," he says, puzzled.

I nod complacently and bend my head to my papers. "I suppose from the short view, that's true," I concede. Ah, he's already such a Colonial. Those of us born and raised in this culture, we Chinese, don't see the short-term, the prices. We focus on the slow change across generations. "But only for that moment." I slide another sheet off the stack and begin reviewing the next. Five mistakes in the first essay, and I despair of having a single passing student.

Wufei drops his head, studying the book's cover. "The whole idea of fighting does seem..."

"Pointless," I suggest. He nods, then nods again, more firmly. I lean back, pushing away a stack of exams. "For the most part, it is. Looking over history, one could well believe that might truly does make right."

"Does it?" Suddenly he seems quite young, and rather worried.

I scratch my chin, thinking about that. "I suppose there are battles that have made a difference. But when you read enough history...they don't matter, after enough years pass. There are so many who've fallen, and so few whose names we remember."

"Is that what's important? What we remember?"

He fingers the edge of the book, and I wonder what brought on this sudden contemplation. Normally he absorbs the information and simply demands more. Or, perhaps, it's that he's no longer a child, and is starting to suspect there are other reasons his family won't bring him home. Still enough of a child, though, that he doesn't fully know those reasons, and I won't be the one to enlighten him. Let him live in ignorance, even if it means hating his family. Better that, than to fear for them but know he's helpless to assist.

"As a historian, part of me wants to say that remembering is the most important task." I shrug, and pull the stack of exams back towards me. Two more hours before the headmaster comes around, demanding the final grades for the upper terms. "But I think it's all important, even that which we forget."

"Why's that important?"

"Master Chang," I tease him, "do you need to ask me that?"

His lower lip juts for a second, the barest hint of childhood passing him quickly, but it's gone as he considers my question. "The mistakes we forget, we repeat," he announces.

I nod, and glance over the top exam, marking it quickly while he ponders.

"Why do people fight? What's the real reason?"

"Ah, well, you never ask easy questions, do you?" I set another paper on the graded pile, and grimace at the number still to go. Setting the pen down, I turn to face him. "Economics, mostly."

"Money?"

"Resources, of which money is one."

Wufei considers that, and nods. "Every war is like that, isn't it... The Americans wanted control over their own assets, as did India. And the Zulu nation, and Japan, under China's rule, and then back again, a thousand years later."

"Exactly." I skim another paper. A glance at the clock tells me I have an hour and a half, now. "So what's your conclusion, Master Chang?"

"It's all pointless," he says, very quietly. "The price of war is too high for the benefits."

Ah, now you're thinking like you're Chinese, I tell him silently, with just a bit of triumph. Consider your children, your grandchildren, and the generations after them. I think back to the losses when the Clans battled as the colonies were built, and the eviction of entire families. Three generations later, and we're still suffering the damage, with little to show for paying the price.

He's quiet for a long time, and I almost forget he's there. I've just finished the stack of papers when he stands, his shoulders slumped just a little. Wufei sets the book on the edge of my desk, his fingers running across the surface lightly, before withdrawing. I look up in surprise, and he gives me a formal bow.

"I won't bother you again, Zhang Lao-shi," he says.

"Xiao Chang?" I'm too startled by the change in his demeanor to keep myself from using his childhood nickname.

Wufei manages a tentative smile. "If people are going to fight, and there's never an end, then it's better to not get involved, right?"

"That's..." One way to look at it, but I don't say it. Something's changed, and I can't put my finger on it. "Do you think therefore history has no value?" I say instead, pulling out the three books I'd borrowed from the university, the evening before. I set them down next to the book he'd just returned. "Something to read over the break, unless you'd rather die of boredom?"

He rouses himself for a second, his lips curling in a sardonic hint. "Too late. I already did reading about the Holy Roman Empire." The faint smile becomes a smirk, and he's gone before I can find something to pretend to throw.

In the wake of his absence, I settle back in my chair, pondering that strange moment of defeat on the boy's face. There's a tap at the door and I look up at the headmaster's creased face.

"Zhang Lao-shi," he says. He settles himself on the chair Wufei so recently vacated, and looks over the stack of papers. "Progress?"

"What do you think, old man?"

Li laughs, quieting into a grin. "Saw the Chang boy heading down the hallway. You're still feeding his book addiction, I see."

"Who, me?" I give Li an innocent look, and check the clock. "You're a half-hour early."

"I was just passing by," he replies. "Seeing Xiao Chang reminded me of the news."

"What news?" I roll my eyes at him, and pull off my glasses, dropping them on the now-smaller stack of papers. "The Alliance?"

"Yes, but something else, too," Li says, grinning widely. "About the Chang clan. They've set the wedding date for Xiao Chang."

"Oh, dear God," I say, leaning my head back as I rub my temples. "That might explain it..." Unexpectedly, I chortle.

Li shoots me a look.

"I think our Xiao Chang has reached the rather Chinese conclusion that fighting serves no purpose. I'm just wondering if he gave in that easily, as a way to allow himself to accede to the marriage without losing face. Marriage is not a battlefield."

"You haven't met my brother's tai-tai," Li retorts. "Staying out of fights is sometimes the only way to gracefully survive."

I snort and shove the finished papers at Li. " I don't have time to debate marital tactics with you. I still have a class worth of finals."

Li looks smug for a second, but the expression falters. "There's something else," he says, leaning forward as he drops his voice to a whisper. "There're rumors that A0206 is slated for destruction."

"Does Chang know?"

"Don't think so," Li said, "and the other teachers know better than to say anything." He raises an eyebrow at me.

"Good," I tell him. "Let the boy keep his ignorance a little longer."

"You do him a disservice, Yuebin," Li admonishes, using my given name to underline his disapproval. "You realize if the Alliance carries through, the leadership will fall to Xiao Chang, as heir? All your talk of standing by and letting history pass you is the ramblings of a jaded old man. Such talk is not for the young!"

"The young are impetuous, and should mind their elders," I retort, reminding Li obliquely that he's twenty years my junior. Li doesn't take umbrage like I expect, however, but merely regards me with something akin to sadness.

"Very well, Zhang Lao-shi," Li replies softly. He stands, the finished papers in his arms, and gives me another little bow. "I'll be back in twenty minutes for the rest of the exams."

I nod, and don't lift my head as he leaves.

* * *

3.

* * *

The spring term comes and goes, the winter rains giving way to lighter showers, and Beijing is gray and forlorn under the steel-stroked skies. My office is still chilly, but I suspect that's less a factor of the old building's inefficient heat, and more due to the cold that's sunk into my bones over the years.

There's a tap at the door, and I raise my head to see Wufei Chang step into the office.

"Zhang Lao-shi," he says, and drops several more books on the edge of my desk. "Thank you for the loans."

I push my glasses up my nose and study the spines of the books. "I loaned you these?" Hmph, I think, my memory really is going.

"At some point," Wufei says, his smile genuine, but chagrined. "I don't remember when, but I found them when I was cleaning out my room. I thought I'd gotten them all back to you."

"Did you finish them?" I tap the top book. History of Ancient Greece. "Not exactly the most lively reading."

"But informative," he says.

I nod and lift the first book out of the way, picking up a book of the Second World War, a conflict five hundred years in the past. The pages are turned down at several corners, and the book seems well-thumbed. I seem to recall getting this one for him, back at the beginning of the semester. He'd quickly moved onto something else, and I can't recall ever prompting him to return the book. I'm sure I've already paid the overdue fines several times, and just never remembered long enough to care.

Or perhaps it doesn't matter, I think. I lift the book with both hands, weighing it for a minute before presenting it to Wufei formally.

"Keep it," I tell him.

His face colors, and his shoulders stiffen. "I couldn't, Lao-shi, I'm already remiss for not having return―"

"I insist, Xiao Chang," I tell him, letting a bit of affection seep into my tone. He stares at the book for several seconds before reluctantly accepting it. When he does, though, I notice he holds it tight against his chest.

"I am grateful for your kindness," Wufei tells me, and bows deeply.

"Chang?" Again, the changes catch me off-guard. He hasn't sat down, and we haven't begun our weekly - often daily - debate about some academic point of history. I stand up, my bones creaking with the movement, and he still doesn't say anything. "Xiao Chang?"

"I...won't be coming back to school here," he says, very quietly.

His grades are exemplary, I know that much. I've not had him in my class for two years, but I keep track of these things. So it can't be that...I rack my brains, and then recall Li's words, before the winter session break. Marriage. I sigh, and lean one hand against the desk as I remove my glasses with the other hand, wiping my eyes with the back of my hand before settling my glasses back on my nose.

"Are you worried?" I let him figure out what I mean.

"No," he says, and makes a face. "It's all rather pointless, isn't it? Getting married, dealing with being the heir...I've read all the history books you could loan me. What could possibly happen now that hasn't happened before? What makes this time so different?"

"Doesn't mean you have to like it," I point out.

"I don't," he spits, sudden fury making his body shake. "I don't want to go back home, where they never really wanted me anyway, and I don't want to marry some girl because they say so, and I don't want to be stuck on a colony with _no new books!"_

The room is silent in the wake of his outburst, and I sigh. Putting one hand on his shoulder, I squeeze gently before letting it fall. Perhaps Li was right; perhaps my ancient, hidebound lack of care for the passing whims of each new fad has been the wrong thing to give this boy. Change is not easy, I know, and while history repeats itself, it never does so in the same way twice. Change is crucial, no matter how much we fear it.

As much as I fear the loneliness of a long semester, with no Wufei Chang gracing my office threshold with impertinent debates about history.

"You are not entirely without means," I say, but he interrupts me uncharacteristically. I realize immediately that he misread my meaning.

"I don't have any resources," he retorts. "No one will listen to me, and they all tell me that marriage is my duty." Wufei says the word like it's a curse, and just as quickly the anger's gone. "At least I go into this knowing that if I'm the one who lacks, that there's no point in fighting it, right, Lao-shi?"

I start to agree, because that's how I feel. And then I see the truth of it: I'm wrong, but it's too late now. I try, anyway.

"Sometimes, there is a good reason to fight," I offer.

"It is better to let it pass you by," Wufei says, and he sounds clear, and confident, as though this decision gives him peace.

I can't take that peace away from him. Let him live a little longer breathing his ignorance, I pray, and so I bow to him formally, watching him walk out the door, his head held high, the book cradled in his arms.

When the door closes behind him, I sink into my chair and rest my head in my hands.

I don't think I have ever failed a child so completely as I have Xiao Chang.


	5. Two Teaspoons

Takes place before the series begins. No warnings, no violence, no pairings, no language, no nudity.

Rated: G

**Two Teaspoons**

* * *

1.

* * *

I hear the padding footsteps before I see him, but I don't turn around. Such a serious little boy, I think, all eyes and that mop of hair. Another cup of onions into the wok, and I sprinkle some sugar over top, stirring quickly. The sizzling drowns out the progress of his investigation into the kitchen.

Several more minutes pass, as I check the rice, stirring it a few times and making sure the burner is on the lowest possible setting. Some of the technicians prefer short-grain rice, and it's not only a hassle to get it brought from Earth, it's also a hassle to cook it without it turning into a mess of glutin.

When I turn around to dump the onions and green peppers into a bowl, the boy is standing in the doorway. His blue eyes regard me with a great deal of seriousness, as though he's measured me up and found me lacking, somehow. Being an uncle obviously hasn't made me any better at dealing with kids, let alone this kid, but my nieces will never be like him.

I hope not, at least.

"This is a very inefficient way of doing things," he tells me. The boy's voice isn't condemning; just stating something that he's already concluded must be a fact.

"Efficiency isn't the point," I tell him, and finish dumping the vegetables.

A part of me wants to smack that wide-eyed but somehow satisfied look off his face, but I've heard the stories. This is definitely one kid that won't get a spanking and be tossed off to bed. You'd probably wake up with a gun to your head, if you tried that. Instead, I do the passive version of the same, which amounts to turning my back on him.

I set the wok down on the stove, firing the heat up again, leaning away quickly when the soy sauce splatters from the pan. A few dashes of rice vinegar, and I twist open the bottles of ginger and garlic, scooping out a teaspoon of minced garlic with my fingers. Shaking my hand in a quick movement, the garlic hits the searing liquid and sizzles, followed a second later by another teaspoon, and then one of ginger.

By the time I turn around again, the boy is gone.

* * *

2.

* * *

The next time it's my turn to cook, he appears in the kitchen, fresh from the target range. He's announced by the taint of ammonia, kerosene, and a hint of sulfur, which will follow him for the next few hours, until it fades from his small hands. I inhale the curry deeply, letting the tang settle into my nostrils until I can no longer smell the boy's presence.

"You cook with too many pans," he tells me, and this time he's sitting at the counter.

"Maybe I do," I answer, and spoon the paneer out of the hot oil, setting it on a napkin-covered plate to drain. "But that's part of the process."

He's quiet for several minutes. I doubt he's mulling it over. More likely he's watching intently, waiting to see me perform yet another action that will prove his conclusions correct. Or perhaps not; I'm not really sure. I'm only here to supervise the life-systems and take my turn cooking once a week. I know my way around guns, and the mainframe, and I can do a decent job on a mobile suit if I have to, but I'm not one of his teachers, and I only see the Doctor in the halls, every now and then. So the fact that the boy even notes my existence is a bit of a surprise. But, from what I hear from Jake, the boy is a walking bundle of surprises.

If a very self-contained bundle, at that. When I turn around to lay out flour before making samosas, I'm alone in the kitchen.

* * *

3.

* * *

I peruse the ingredients and decide on Chinese cuisine, wondering if the boy will appear this week. Last week he was testing the Doctor's mobile suit design, and didn't appear for dinner that night. Jake said the boy had K-rations after they carried him out of the suit, but something about that didn't sit right with me. Not like I get much say in the matter. I'm just here to make sure people can breathe on this far-flung resource satellite, and to sometimes tickle their taste buds.

I nearly trip over the kid this time, though, when I turn to grab a knife from the rack. He's at my elbow, and I'm startled by just how tiny he is. Maybe four feet, a few inches taller, and his eyes are large, watching my actions as I chop the pork into thin strips. I push the meat off the cutting board into a bowl, and rinse the board quickly before flipping it over and grabbing the bag of green peppers. He watches as I crack them open, ripping out the seedpods and rinsing them thoroughly.

"You washed the outsides already," he tells me.

"Have to wash the seeds out, too," I reply. "Otherwise they'll make the food bitter. Even one," I add, seeing a wayward seed and directing the water at it.

"It's just food," the boy says, but his eyes never leave my hands.

"It's more than just food." I chop the green peppers, pausing to glance towards the refrigeration unit. "Get me the garlic and ginger?"

The boy regards me for a second, as though weighing whether or not I'm someone important enough to be telling him what to do. After a second, he gives me a serious little nod. I hear him grunt and glance over my shoulder to see him trying to pry the door open. The seals are tight on the unit. Shaking my head, I cross the three feet and reach for the door, but he spins in place, his body pressed against the door as if to keep me from approaching.

"I can do it." His voice is flat, and certain, but his body's taut, his eyes narrowed.

I raise my hands in surrender, backing away. I don't stop checking, though, and soon he figures out that if he puts a foot against the wall, he can get enough force to yank the door open. Then there's a clunking sound, and he sets the two bottles on the counter by my elbow. I smirk to myself. If he stepped forward and went up on his toes, he could just perch his chin on the counter.

"Get a chair," I say. When he gives me a suspicious look, I shrug. "Or you can stand there and miss everything."

He considers that, then disappears behind me. I can hear the scraping sound, an undercurrent to the knife's edge slapping the cutting board as I chop the broccoli. For a moment, I consider extending help, but remember the tense shoulders, the desperate look in his eyes, as though daring me to prove him wrong. I sigh, and wait patiently, hearing the soft grunts as he maneuvers the chair to the counter and clambers up onto the seat. When he stands upright, his head is level with mine.

"This is pork," I say, pointing to the first bowl. He studies it for a second, and then nods. I'm having the damnedest time keeping a straight face, and it takes effort to force my voice flat. "These are green peppers, that's broccoli, and these are snow peas. I've got rice cooking, which is one part rice, one and a half parts water."

"Why not cook it all together?" He frowns at me.

"Several reasons. One, cooking time," and I explain how to make rice, lifting the lid with a whoosh of steam. I tilt the pot so he can see into it, and he nods as though granting his approval. "Now, we need seasoning. Equal parts soy sauce, rice vinegar, sesame oil, and then two teaspoons of sugar."

"Sugar is for dessert," the boy says, his brow wrinkling as he watches me dip into the sugar container. "You're not measuring it."

"Am too," I declare. "Second drawer. Measuring spoons."

The boy bends over, rattling around in the drawer before raising a set of measuring spoons. I measure out a teaspoon of sugar by hand, and then hold out my palm, pouring it carefully into the waiting spoon.

"One teaspoon," and I nearly laugh at the fact that his eyes seemed to have swallowed his face, for shock. They go narrow, then, and I'm not sure whether it's because he suspects I'm laughing at him, or because he's trying to determine what trick I used to make my inefficient measurement just right.

"Dump it in the bowl," I tell him, and he does. A flicker of a smile appears on his face, and I decide to follow a hunch. "Here's a spoon. You stir, while I check the rice."

He takes the spoon, and carefully stirs the ingredients together, flinching a little when I drop in two teaspoons of garlic and a teaspoon of crushed ginger. The boy doesn't complain, however, and continues to stir, methodically and cautiously. I notice the line between his brows is gone, and rather than tell him to stop, I let him keep stirring.

When I serve dinner that night, I don't speak of the help I received. But I notice that his face, just visible above the table from from his perch on a box, has the faintest cast of triumph as the men praise the dinner.

* * *

4.

* * *

"Where did you learn to cook?"

The boy doesn't wait, now, but joins me soon after I begin my weekly kitchen duty. Five weeks, now, and he's merely followed my direction, watching closely at everything I do. When I vary my routine, he tells me, but I'm not sure whether he's correcting me, or just trying to figure it out. The chair moves from its place by the wall, the little body striving less to make the effort, and I sigh. I've heard rumors the Doctor is doing something to the kid to make him stronger, and while I can see the results already, it's a bit creepy. He can open the refrigeration unit without needing to put a leg up against the wall for extra leverage, too.

"Lots of places," I say, eyeing the pork in the wok before stirring it a few more times. "Had a Chinese girlfriend, once, and she taught me much of what I know. She taught me what to cook, and for how long," I amend. "She didn't teach me how."

He puzzles over that, carefully scooping out a chunk of minced garlic from the bottle, and eyeing it carefully. Obviously dubious, he rummages in the drawer before getting the measuring spoons, and scoops up the garlic from his palm, studying the amount in the spoon for several seconds. Satisfied, he drops it into the bowl with the ginger.

"What's the difference?" The voice is flat, but I've learned it's not because he doesn't care. He does care. He's just not sure what it means, so he keeps it all at arm's length.

The boy selects a wooden spoon from the instrument rack and begins stirring the oil, vinegar, and soy sauce together with the garlic and ginger. I pause to check the noodles, before returning my attention to the meat, simmering on the edges of the wok's bottom.

"Anyone can follow a recipe," I say, eyeing the pork before tossing in the bok choy. "But there's something else you have to know, before you can really make a meal. Well," and I grin, mostly to myself, "it's not the recipe you have to know."

"The tools," he offers.

"Nope." I shake my head.

His brow wrinkles, and he studies everything on the countertop. "The heat?"

"Nope," I repeat.

He narrows his eyes at me, as though we're back to me trying to convince him that I can measure out a teaspoon of something without needing to use a spoon.

"Here," I say, and tap him on the chest. He instinctively looks down, then back up at me, his face baffled. "It's in here," I tell him, and tap him again. When he looks down a second time, I chuck him under the chin, and barely catch myself from laughing when he gives me a shy smile from under his eyelashes.

"You have to know yourself," I explain, and lift the pot of noodles, pouring them into a waiting strainer. "My ex-girlfriend only used one teaspoon each of garlic and ginger, but I use two of garlic, and one of ginger. That's cause I follow my instincts."

"Follow your instincts," the boy parrots. His eyes are impossibly wide, and he stares at the wok as though I'd just shown him the Holy Grail. I wonder what he's thinking now, but he doesn't say anything else, and the moment passes.

"Always follow the recipe, at first, just to see what will happen," I tell him, grabbing a slotted spoon. "And then, once you know your tools, adjust as your heart tells you. Or," and I grin down at him, "as your stomach tells you." I hold out a snow pea, my hand cupped under the spoon. "Taste."

Obediently he opens his mouth, blowing on the snow pea a few times before nibbling at the edge. Then he takes it into his mouth, closing his eyes, and I watch as the little line appears between his brows. Then it disappears, and his eyes open, catching me off-guard once again with how sky-blue they can be, even so far from the Earth.

"Well," I ask, "what do your instincts tell you?"

"More ginger," he informs me. The boy pries the top off the ginger bottle, scoops out two fingersful, and studies it for a second before dropping it into the wok. There's a flicker of a smile around the edges of his lips, and he glances up at me, as though checking to see what I'll say.

"Two teaspoons it is, then," I tell him.


	6. One Secret

**One Secret**

* * *

1.

I straighten the papers on my desk, stacking them neatly and setting them aside. It isn't necessary, but it's a good breather while I consider how to approach this situation. The young girl sits opposite me, her hands clenched tightly in her lap, her head down. Her honey-brown hair falls just past her shoulders, and I can see the beginnings of what will probably become a very attractive young woman. But right now, she's timid, and that undoes the grace I think I can see, hiding beneath the early adolescence baby fat.

"Relena," I say, calmly, sighing when she flinches, her attention drawn away from the window and back to me. "I've spoken with your mother—"

"Sorry," she mumbles, ducking her head.

"It's not your fault," I tell her, and get up from behind the desk, moving to sit on the chair next to her. I don't touch her, saddened by the way she recoils just a little. She's both shy and easily intimidated. "Look, the bullies are... well, I know they're part of school. And we're doing what we can to get them to lay off, but—"

"If I were stronger, I could get them to leave me alone, but I know I just make it worse—" Her words come out in a quiet rush.

"Oh, honey, that's not true." I pause, frown, and think about it. I don't know where the inspiration comes from, but I smile widely, and it's enough to throw her off. She raises her head, and I see a flash of the prettiest blue eyes. I wink at her. "I think I have an idea, Relena. What you need is a secret."

"A secret? A secret what?" Her eyes widen, but she looks curious. A good sign. "What kind of secret?"

"The kind you never tell, but always know," I whisper. "You in?"

There's a pause, and she chews her lower lip, thinking it over carefully. Her chin comes up, and she offers me a tentative smile. "Okay," she says, "I'm in."

* * *

2.

Relena looks surprised when I take her out of class a week after our first meeting. She doesn't know I've spoken with her parents, but they've promised to pretend their ignorance. There have been two more incidents with the upper-class bullies, pushing Relena into a locker and picking on her family, her accent, her bookish ways. Two seniors reported the incidents, along with the teachers who made the boys leave Relena alone, but she's still shaken up as I escort her to my car. She halts on the curb, a little surprised.

"Miss Bartlett?" Relena glances around, and fiddles with the strap on her bag. "Is this okay? I mean... we're leaving campus," and she whispers the last word.

"That's right. We're going to get you a secret. Hop in." I unlock the doors, and she slides into the passenger seat. I start up the car, and give her a smile that's supposed to be reassuring. "I don't bite, Relena. And I know it may seem weird, but we guidance counselors have cars, and apartments, and sometimes I'm even known to go grocery shopping."

She giggles.

Another good sign.

* * *

3.

"Miss Bartlett?" Relena clutches her bag in her lap when we pull up to the low-slung concrete building. "Should I... my bag... " She glances around wildly, and I know she's being eaten up with curiosity.

"Leave it in the car," I say, and get out, dragging out a silver metallic briefcase from the backseat. "This," I tell her, "is the city range. This is where police officers and Sanq agents come to practice their firearms skills."

"Fire... " Relena halts on the steps. "You mean like... guns?" To her credit, she doesn't shrink back, but looks both thrilled and intrigued.

"That's right." I usher her into the building, where I sign in. The guard looks at her, nods to me, and goes back to reading his newspaper. Relena doesn't need to know the guard has a permission slip for her, signed by her parents, with a picture of her so the guard will recognize her. This is her secret, and the fewer authority figures involved, the better.

I hope, at least. That's what I told her father; he could have vetoed the idea, but to my surprise, he agreed. Relena follows me down the hallway, into one of the small rooms outside the range. I set the briefcase down on the lone table, and flip it open.

"This is a Ruger Mark I, a semi-automatic .22," I say. I check to make sure it's unloaded, and explain each step of what I'm doing. Relena watches, and I notice her hands coming up at a few points, as if she's about to request that I hand it over. "Now that I've made sure it's not loaded, I'm going to hand it to you. Remember that you never point a gun at anyone unless you plan to fire it, even if you know it's not loaded. Always act like the gun is loaded... we clear?" I arch my eyebrows, and Relena nods emphatically.

I place the gun in her hands, and she cradles it, giggling a little. "It's not as heavy as I thought," she whispers, turning it around in her hands. She's careful to keep the barrel pointed away from both of us, and I guide her hands to holding it in the proper position. "Wow," she says, and grins suddenly. "I'm holding a gun!"

* * *

4.

She's got real potential to be a crack shot, after a little practice. The first time she fires, she nearly drops the gun, and I have trouble keeping a straight face at the sound of her squeaking excitement. Then she calms down, cautiously checks the firearm, settles the ear and eye protection, rests her hands on the padded rail, takes aim, and fires.

Not quite a bull's eye, but damn near close. This time, she sets the gun down before leaping up and down. She even does a little fist in the air motion, and I'm startled by the sudden and radical change from the mousy girl I'd met the week before. Suddenly she's a talkative and energetic creature who's insisting I bring the paper forward so she can save it.

We're there for two hours, until her hands are tired and her wrists have to be aching, but she fires off round after round without complaint. Her jaw's set, her lips in a firm line, and she keeps at it. She never quite duplicates the first shot, but she's getting better; her spray pattern is tight, and she's handling the gun with confidence.

At three hours, I call a halt, despite her insistence she wants to keep going. Hell, I'm exhausted and I only had to watch and give pointers. It takes us another two hours to clean the gun, bit by bit, until it's shining. By then, school's out, but I get her back to campus in time for her ride to pick her up.

She's grinning, and waves to me, but only after making me promise we'll go again.

"Our secret," she whispers, and puts a finger to her lips, then dashes off.

* * *

5.

We go four more times, and on the last trip, I present her with a Ruger semi-automatic thirty-eight. Relena is too overwhelmed to protest, which tells me a lot; her upbringing probably would've insisted she refuse. Instead she's on the gun like glue on a stamp, turning it over in her hands and practically dragging me off to try it.

It's a gift from her father. Maybe someday he'll tell her, or perhaps he never will. He and I have spoken several times, when I've called with updates on her progress and the situation with the bullies. There have been only one or two incidents since the first time I met with Relena, but my teacher-sources say Relena's been standing her ground. Her father's a pacifist, and he's mentioned more than once that he's not sure how he feels about his daughter learning to shoot. But, as I told him, she's also female. She needs to know how to defend herself, though I pray to whatever power may be that she's never called on to use those skills.

Someday, the world may be safe. Until then, we do what we can, and hope that every piece of power we put in a girl's hands is power to keep her whole.

* * *

6.

Six weeks after our first meeting. Relena leaves me a message that she's going to the range on her own from now on. The guards are used to her now, and they tell me she's in once a week, her chin up, all business-like at fourteen. She's not aware she's their little mascot, studiously cleaning her gun after each time, packing it away in its carrier with the seriousness of a lifetime police officer.

I don't see her for a week or two, caught up in new situations with other students and the inevitable end-of-the-year chaos with seniors on my roster. I'm chatting with the drama teacher when I hear the raised voices of the junior class bullies. Suspicious, I follow my friend to the classroom door.

Relena's standing in the middle of the hallway, her chin up; her expression is somewhere between blank and mildly amused. One of the guys is leaning into her, but she doesn't flinch. She doesn't lower her eyes. She's silent, but she stares him down with perfect composure. I'm not sure what he's saying – something about how ugly she is, how nerdy she is, the usual cruel taunts insecure boys will throw at pretty girls. Relena doesn't move a muscle. It takes me a second, and I realize.

She's sizing him up like he's a target. Cool, collected, unruffled.

The boy's taunts stutter to a halt, and he glances at his friends. They're cowed already, falling back behind the ringleader, who frowns. Several other girls have drifted closer, curious, and the ringleader steps back, disconcerted by the fact that Relena doesn't seem perturbed in the least.

The boy mutters a few more things I don't hear, but Relena doesn't even flicker an eyelash. She just watches him, her eyes a little narrowed, and then she smiles. She's got her bull's eye, and now she only has to fire.

I have to step behind my teacher-friend rather than let the students catch what must be a smug expression on my face. Relena sees the movement, however, and once the boys have ambled off, she turns towards me. The girls are swarming around her, astonished, impressed, but Relena glances past them, to me.

I nod, pleased, and she raises a hand. It looks for a second like she's forming the letter 'L' – then I realize, she's mimicking a gun. She points the barrel of her imaginary gun down the hallway, towards the bullies, and her blue eyes shift to look at me.

"Bang," she mouths.

Then she blows on the end of her finger, pretends to tuck the gun into a holster. None of the girls around her have noticed, too busy chattering amongst themselves and at Relena. She tosses her head, smiling in a self-assured manner, and lets them keep talking while she rides out the adulation.

The last thing I see is the group dragging her around the corner, off to celebrate their vicarious experience of her victory. Relena glances back one more time, and winks.

One secret, I think, and lean against the doorjamb, crossing my arms. Sometimes that's all a person needs.


End file.
